All I could do was to wait for the stone of doubt and my rippled heart to settle.
But my surface never knows peace the veins of leaves, the claws of birds, they touch me and demand an expression and I play along. I give way to them.
I am learning giving way, giving in is what people call love. And the core of what I am, therefore, doesn’t believe in love.
The tired core of me would have probably believed in love if it was not so easy to get, a love that was never a win-win situation, that demanded a bit more hurt, that asked me to see someone outside of myself.
Once I was told by my own shattering image that I would learn to laugh at this moment.
It was not a pleasant sentence to hear.
It reminded me of all the sentences that are manufactured in the factories of peace. you will forget this bruise. you will forget those words. you will forget this love. you will forget this face. forgetting is what you really want. far away from every “here” is the place you want to be.
It reminded me of all the meaningless words that were born everyday in the mouths of strangers – words that awkwardly held me not knowing who I am or why I must be consoled but convinced something in me should be put to sleep before it learnt to cry in the audible ranges of pain.
There are too many words in this place. Too little heart. There are too many people who look like they have known pains that I might never have. But they are the same ones who want to bury things that are only broken. So I am going to run towards every “here” out there, towards that lesser life filled with loss. A life where things that are lost are allowed to matter.
And when we had run out of pleasant things to talk about I asked him things he didn’t ask me, things he didn’t want to be asked. But I was bored of the all this peace, all the ants that crawled into him, into me maintaining separate lines, to reach the places in us we both didn’t want the other to see. I guess I wanted him to be different, I had more than enough people who wanted to love me without knowing me. I guess I wanted to be difficult. For once I didn’t want to be the easy conversation, the easy way out of pain.
I asked him when the waves of life try to reach his foot, what does he do? Who does he think of? Whom does he drown in his mind every time, every moment to avoid knowing what he really feels? Does he almost hold that hand, does he almost save the one who will kill him first, who has always killed him without hesitating?
He seems to be the type who would do stupid tings on repeat at least thirty times before giving up on the one whose love didn’t surface even after the thirty wounds, or bloody hands, or hundred considerations. He looks so breakable and so happy I wonder if in the hollows of his heart where his anger and disappointments hides, are there flower beds of daisies, and a heart that can never be broken?
Is this how I look- like him, plagued and haunted by beautiful dead thing? Is that why he smiles at me without saying a word? Is that why I can’t smile back?
The ones who left I hope they left with pockets full of everything that was mine, that way I can resent them in peace and call them thieves and scoundrels when I get drunk, instead feeling that I have wronged them by being myself, by having nothing in me worth staying for.
The glass window creaks under the weight of my head. I wonder if I should sleep. Not that it is in my hands. I wish it was . But then I am afraid of wishing for anything that I might not be able to bear-
like her face alive in my dreams,
like seeing myself with a smile that I can never wear again,
like wanting to smile again even when I do not want to want such things.
Even when I stay awake, stay alert to the turning and tossing of my heart even when I stay glued to the place I had in her heart, I feel that time is dragging me away from everything that is painfully comfortable and familiar and lost.
I feel the world trying to rush back into me. I feel I might lose her too soon, too easily. I fear there is only so much that my heart can take. I fear that I will find the peace that I do not want to feel at the other end of this suffering.
I sit on the cold boulder and film everything, just like I am told. I am told, only for today, I should stop sewing myself up haphazardly, messing up the live-stream, and talking about things that will never happen. I have been told to put a hold on the wonderful manipulation that does no good to any effort my mind puts in fixing things back.
My mind doesn’t like me much, understandably. And I don’t like the idea of fixing anything- a harder concept. Maybe that’s why I burn as my mind looks around me. Maybe I should actually stop, when I am told to but I don’t want a way out, I don’t want to look.
“i promise not to hurt anyone but me” “i am fine like this. don’t take my tears seriously.” “please don’t mind the doctor’s note.” “please don’t mind the smoke in this room, it is a temporary solution to my emptiness, till something worse comes along.”
There is an exit sign that flies far away from me. There appears a road that it eats itself up . There are bridges that I have cried over and the fires that no longer burn. Everything of beauty that I had in me I have lost it here. I have burnt my body, nerve by nerve, for the sake of peace and love. Let me live here near the ashes of my past selves near the life that cannot be, around things that can’t be helped.
One of these days I might just stop loving you and that might just break me. But I feel I might be less cold, less reckless, and less pathetic in that sort of breaking. I want to be reduced to myself for once. For once I don’t want to carry around the magnificence of undelivered love on my shoulder and stand outside stores with doors too small. I dream to become the whole of my skin rather than just the wounds that hurt. I think only this dream can save me, make something peaceful out of me, make me someone harmless. One of these days I will look at you and nothing in me would ache, at least not because of you.
I regret to tell you this that the blue sky that you died for is not longer blue. It is painting its face with remains of our greed, with the colors of our wars. But it is still sort of fair. It is trying hard not to choose sides, not to become the flags that unites only those whose favorite words are ‘future’, ‘safety’,’money’, ‘greatness’, while they clutch in their hands the fate of people they don’t identify with- ‘burden’ they call them. ‘Fear’ is another favorite word of theirs. They don’t speak much of it, but it is most useful or at least that’s what I have heard from the ones we are no longer allowed to call out or even mock. I have lost every bit of my passive aggressiveness. Life has become more bearable now that my skin is not broken for making too much noise, now that we have learnt to hold each other’s tongue so that we may not lose more friends than we already have. I regret to tell you that your dreams will remains dreams and you might be one of the last to know how dreams felt in your eyes, how tomorrow used to change by effort.